


To See When Shown

by misbegotten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Creating Stars, Dreamsharing, Excessive Use of Miracles, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: Crowley dreams, Aziraphale snoops, and it all ends in sex.





	To See When Shown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunabee34 (Lorraine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/gifts).



> Thanks to out_there for cheerleading! And beta reading!

Aziraphale had never seen the point of sleeping. There were so many more interesting things one could be doing. Like reading.

The bookshop, as reconstituted by Adam, included a particularly nice sofa that was just long enough for Aziraphale to sit at one end and read while Crowley sprawled upon the rest of its length. If need be, Crowley could squeeze himself into impossible spaces in search of a good lie down. Aziraphale had seen him dozing peacefully in a horse-drawn cart (bumpy), nestled in a pallet of hay (itchy), and on one memorable occasion curled inside a large drainpipe (very... round). But the sofa was comfortable and perfectly sized for the two of them.

Crowley was asleep now, turned slightly on his side. He had one arm tucked under his head and the other extended toward Aziraphale, knuckles just grazing Aziraphale's thigh. Crowley did not snore, but he did have a tendency to produce slightly breathy hissing sounds that Aziraphale found charming.

Even as Aziraphale was considering this, however, something changed. Crowley twitched, his fingers flexing at first and then balling into a fist. He curled in on himself, muscles tensed, and his breathing grew short.

"Nnn--" Crowley muttered, trying to form words in his sleep.

Aziraphale put out his hand, fingers coming to rest on Crowley's hair. He skritched softly, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. What did demons dream, Aziraphale wondered. Thinking back to his short time in Crowley's workplace -- dank, oppressive, the stench of pressed bodies and rotting souls -- Aziraphale shuddered. Nothing good, obviously.

Then, as if it was torn from his chest, Crowley managed a sound that Aziraphale recognised. "--ziraphale!"

It was so pained, so wretched, that Aziraphale couldn't help himself. He _reached_ \--

The bookshop was burning. Aziraphale was so startled that he nearly fell out of the dream. Flames licked the walls, crawling up bookshelves in an onslaught of chaos. The fire roared, its voice an echoing din of things torn asunder, but above that Aziraphale heard something even more heart wrenching.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley cried out. "I can't find you!"

Aziraphale was frozen, torn between dismay at Crowley's distress and awe at the detail of the dream. Acrid smoke bit at him, rolling around him in waves and obscuring his view. When it parted, he saw Crowley huddled on the floor, apparently oblivious to the encroaching flames.

"I've lost my best friend," Crowley said hoarsely. "Aziraphale!"

The words echoed in Aziraphale's ears. With a start, he realised that he was not just witnessing Crowley's dream. Crowley was drawing on memory.

Crowley had told him that the bookshop burned down. Aziraphale had not known, however, that Crowley had gone in looking for him. Crowley had risked discorporation to find him.

Oh _Crowley_.

Concentrating, Aziraphale unfurled his wings. Flames parted as he crossed the floor, their fury dying in his wake. When he reached Crowley, Aziraphale tilted his wings forward, sheltering him from the blaze.

Crowley raised his head. His golden eyes shimmered with tears, and Aziraphale felt a pang of guilt. He had encroached on Crowley's nightmare with the best of intentions, but seeing Crowley so vulnerable seemed like the gravest of intrusions.

"Angel?" Crowley asked tentatively.

Aziraphale extended a hand. "I'm here, my dear."

Crowley surged up from the floor and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, burying his head in Aziraphale's shoulder. "Thought I'd lost you," he said gruffly.

"I'm here," Aziraphale said again, reassuring him.

Around them, the flames dissipated, giving way -- improbably -- to a gentle breeze. The bookshop had gone, melted into the recesses of Crowley's mind. In its place appeared the wall of the Garden. The heat of the fire had been replaced by blazing sunshine, and in the distance Aziraphale could hear the call of birds long since gone from the earth.

"Angel," Crowley said, and it was Crowley as Aziraphale had not seen him in six millennia. Russet curls tumbled down Crowley's shoulders and his wings curled toward Aziraphale. "Didn't mean it." The words were buried in the curve of Aziraphale's shoulder, and Aziraphale found that his arms settled naturally around Crowley's waist.

"You didn't mean what?" Aziraphale asked gently, but Crowley simply pressed himself more tightly against him. Then he moved and--

Was Crowley _nuzzling_ him?

"Angel," Crowley said, his lips ghosting over the skin of Aziraphale's neck. "I'd never leave you." He punctuated each word with a light kiss, his tongue flicking out to taste Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's arms had tightened involuntarily at Crowley's waist and, flustered, he deliberately loosened his grip. "Crowley, I'm not sure--"

"Aziraphale," Crowley sighed, his breath warm on Aziraphale's cheek. "Shut up." And then Crowley's mouth was on his.

The kiss was searing. The sound that Aziraphale made in response was meant to be one of surprise. Of alarm, perhaps. Certainly not something so decidedly wanton. And a bit needy, truth be told.

Crowley hummed pleasantly at the sound. His hand cradled the back of Aziraphale's head, pulling Aziraphale in more deeply. His teeth scraped Aziraphale's lower lip, tugging gently, and he licked into Aziraphale's mouth again.

Aziraphale's wings, he realised, were fully unfurled. He was failing spectacularly at putting distance between himself and Crowley.

"Angel," Crowley murmured. "Am I going too fast for you?"

Oh, Aziraphale thought helplessly. If ever he had wished his own words unspoken...

As he started to reply, the dream ended like a bubble winking out of existence.

Aziraphale was back on the sofa, his forgotten book having slid to the floor. Crowley's head -- Heavens -- was in his lap.

Aziraphale froze. He wasn't quite sure, in fact, whether he had managed to freeze time as well.

Crowley disabused him of this notion by sighing softly and, after a moment, yawning widely. "Hm," he said mildly. He turned his head and then in one fluid motion pulled himself up from the sofa. "Sorry about that, I must have dropped off."

"Y-y-yes," Aziraphale stammered. "Did you, er, dream?"

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, putting it into more disarray than usual, and adjusted the sunglasses on his nose. "I may have," he said breezily. "I sometimes do. What time is it? Spot of lunch?"

Aziraphale nodded. His lips felt swollen -- pleasantly so -- and he seemed to be having trouble forming words.

Crowley held out a hand to help Aziraphale up. "You okay, angel?"

"Quite," he said faintly. He took the proffered hand, and Crowley pulled him up. They stood nearly nose-to-nose for a moment.

"Something on your mind?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No!" Aziraphale exclaimed hastily. Guiltily. He dropped his eyes from Crowley's lips.

 _Lead us not into temptation_ , he reminded himself.

The fact that he ran his tongue over his own lips as he thought it was, at best, a minor sin.

*

Aziraphale was in his cups. Lunch at a lovely tapas place had turned into cocktails at the American Bar, which had led to several very nice bottles of red in Crowley's flat. Aziraphale had considered sobering up, but kept getting distracted by Crowley's gorgeous plants.

"Who's a good _Epipremnum aureum_?" he cooed, petting a young leaf growth.

"Angel," Crowley called from the sitting room, "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?" He plunked his wine glass firmly onto the chic glass end table, and sighed noisily. "It gives them airs."

Aziraphale whispered loudly, "Don't listen to the bad man. He loves you. Really."

"I do not!" Crowley had somehow closed the distance between them, and put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders to turn him firmly away from the greenery. "Watch yourselves!" he spat out, and tugged Aziraphale to a chair. Pushing Aziraphale into it, Crowley sank down on the floor beside him. "I think you've had too much to drink," he announced from somewhere around Aziraphale's knees.

Aziraphale patted the air fruitlessly, trying to make contact with Crowley. "You're one to talk," he complained, as he discovered that Crowley was now lying near his shoes. "You're drunk."

"Not drunk," Crowley slurred. "Just sleepy."

"Mmm," Aziraphale hummed. "Sleepy. Yes, perhaps I should put you to bed."

Crowley murmured something unintelligible to the carpet.

"Right," Aziraphale said with determination. He gathered his wits and concentrated until the room around them changed. They were in Crowley's bedroom, and Crowley was lying on the bed with Aziraphale sitting beside him on the mattress.

It was a nice bed, Aziraphale thought, as far as beds went. The black headboard was padded, giving Aziraphale a comfortable ledge upon which to rest, and there was an abundance of pillows. Crowley stretched comfortably and flung out an arm, curling it around Aziraphale's waist.

"G'night angel," Crowley said into Aziraphale's thigh, his sunglasses poking Aziraphale awkwardly.

With some care, Aziraphale removed the glasses and tucked them on the nightstand next to two other identical pairs. He considered leaving, but Crowley seemed rather snug.

Aziraphale sobered himself to just slightly tipsy. He clicked on the vintage lamp -- Crowley was well past caring about the light -- and conjured the book he'd been reading that morning, a biography of Wilde. After a moment, he conjured a pencil as well and started annotating.

His notes on the origins of _Salome_ had entirely filled the margins by the time Crowley murmured in his sleep. Crowley's fingers tightened on Aziraphale's hip and he burrowed into Aziraphale's side more closely, as if seeking reassurance.

Aziraphale hesitated. Ought he to...?

The thought of Crowley's nightmare -- daymare? Aziraphale wasn't really sure of the proper terminology -- plagued him. If he could help Crowley, he reassured himself, he should.

Carefully, Aziraphale reached out and--

Found himself in darkness. Utter, pitch black, nothingness.

Except it wasn't _nothing_. It was a void, true, but it was a space pregnant with possibility. And then, there, gasses and energy coalesced. Stretched before him was a glittering horizon of imagination. A clump of brighter lights broke free, sparking across the inky blackness and spinning into a mosaic of colors undreamed of by the human eye.

Crowley was creating stars.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, and the light burned so fiercely for a moment that he was blinded.

"Like what you see?" Crowley murmured in Aziraphale's ear.

Aziraphale couldn't make out Crowley's features. He felt Crowley's solid form next to him, though, and leaned into it.

"It's lovely," he said earnestly.

Crowley tipped Aziraphale's face up and kissed him, warm and lazy. With a surprised sigh, Aziraphale yielded to it. Crowley's kiss curled its way through him, a gentle tide of want that left his skin electric.

When Crowley broke the kiss, Aziraphale gasped. "I sometimes forget."

"Hm?" Crowley's raised Aziraphale's hand to kiss the palm.

"That you could do this." Aziraphale cupped Crowley's cheek. "Crowley, you're so beautiful."

Aziraphale caught the flash of golden eyes. "I’m not beautiful. I'm a demon."

"All of God's creatures are beautiful," Aziraphale said softly. "But you, I think, most of all."

Around them, the stars shook. The light grew brighter, sharper, until he could not make out Crowley at all.

"Crowley?" he asked, bewildered. "Crowley?"

When Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was still on Crowley's bed. Crowley had rolled away from him, his face no longer visible.

"Crowley?" he whispered tentatively, but there was no answer.

Rising from the bed, Aziraphale twitched the blanket back into place and smoothed the pillow to erase the dent he'd left in it.

"Sweet dreams," he said softly.

*

Crowley rarely made an appearance in the bookshop before midmorning, and when he finally turned up he insisted on a drive. Aziraphale had been worrying over the problem of a) whether he should apologise to Crowley for eavesdropping on his dreams and b) whether Crowley's physical affection towards him in the dreams was typical, and c) whether Aziraphale himself was complicit in somehow provoking these sensual encounters, and if so d) whether Aziraphale was technically guilty of tempting Crowley, which was not his intention though he had performed the occasional minor temptation to humans in the past when he was doing a favour for Crowley--

Well, Aziraphale was distracted. So distracted that he agreed to the excursion. The Bentley growled happily as they tore down the street, and Aziraphale tried very hard not to shudder as Crowley took a corner far too quickly.

"Crowley," he began, as casually as he could. He interrupted himself to scoot a bike messenger to safety with a blink, and then returned to the matter at hand. "Why do you sleep?"

Crowley's lips thinned into a grim smile as they approached a roundabout. He did tend to take them as a challenge. "What's that angel?"

A taxicab had dared to weave into their lane. Aziraphale sighed as the cab ground to a halt behind them, and absently substituted butterflies for the rats into which Crowley had transformed the car's engine. "Sleeping. It seems-- I mean, I can imagine that it would be disconcerting."

"Disconcerting?" Crowley asked, gleefully passing a police motorcycle, which suddenly ran out of petrol.

Aziraphale was afraid of revealing his own trespasses. "Falling unconscious, I mean. Surely that's an odd feeling. And, er, dreaming."

"I don't know." Crowley shrugged. He looked at Aziraphale, utterly ignoring oncoming traffic. "It's interesting."

Aziraphale winced as a lorry rumbling towards them suddenly thought better of it. "Dreaming, you mean?"

"Dreams can be interesting, yeah." Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "But it's the whole experience. Your body at rest, letting go of your responsibilities and just... being."

Aziraphale considered that for a moment. "Would you teach me? To sleep, I mean?"

Crowley guffawed. "You remember the last time you asked me to teach you something?"

"Roller skates," Aziraphale said mournfully. "You took me to the opening of the skating rink on the Strand in 1857." He winced at the memory. "Surely sleeping can't be as painful as that."

"I don't know," Crowley replied. "Depends on how you do it. Bedroom sports and all that."

"I'm only asking you to teach me how to sleep," Aziraphale protested, feeling rather guilty at his own muddled thoughts about Crowley.

A smile played over Crowley's lips. "Sure, angel. Anything you want."

*

"Right," Crowley said as Aziraphale emerged from the ensuite. "You look perfect!"

Aziraphale, looking down, frowned. "I don't think this is really me, my dear." The black silk pyjamas did feel very nice against his skin, but the overall effect was a little too decadent.

Crowley sighed. "Fine, fine." He snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale was garbed in an old-fashioned tartan check flannel gown. There was a teddy bear sporting a bow tie tucked under his arm. "Want me to read you a bedtime story? Sing you a lullaby?"

Aziraphale put the bear behind the pillow and got beneath the duvet. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Could you lie down with me?"

Crowley's expression slid easily from sarcasm to soft. "Of course." With a snap of his fingers, he was clothed in silk. He plumped his own pillow a bit, then settled next to Aziraphale. "Now, close your eyes," he ordered. "Clear your mind, and think sleepy thoughts."

"Am I meant to think or clear my mind?" Aziraphale asked pointedly as he closed his eyes.

"Are you taking this seriously, angel?" Crowley shifted, the mattress dipping slightly as he rolled towards Aziraphale. "Or was this just an excuse to get me into bed?" His tone was mocking.

Aziraphale's eyes popped open. Crowley was staring at him. Through those ridiculous sunglasses. "Are you planning to sleep with those on?" he asked tetchily.

Silently, Crowley slid off the glasses. He tossed them behind him, but did not break his gaze from Aziraphale. "Close your eyes," he repeated gently. "Clear your mind."

Aziraphale did as he was told. His mind was blank.

_"Like what you see?" Crowley murmured._

Aziraphale's eyes shot open again. "Did you say something?"

Crowley tutted. "You're not clearing your mind. Try again."

Aziraphale drew the blanket to his chin and sighed noisily. "Right." He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift.

_"Angel, am I going too fast for you?"_

"You're doing that on purpose," Aziraphale said crossly. When he opened his eyes, Crowley was regarding him with amusement.

"What's the matter, angel?" he asked lightly. "Someone poking around in your head?"

Aziraphale sat up quickly. "You knew!" he exclaimed. "You lied to me!"

"I never!" Crowley protested.

Aziraphale's indignation subsided as rapidly as it had come. "No," he agreed. "You didn't." He plucked nervously at the sheet. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I had no right to wander around in your dreams."

Crowley barked out a laugh. "Please, I'm a demon. We plant images in people's minds all the time. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you flitting about my subconscious?"

Aziraphale was abashed. And then intensely curious. "So you don't dream about me? I mean, normally?"

"Well--" Crowley drew out the word, waving a hand negligently. "Maybe I do."

"And you dream about me in those sorts of situations?"

"What sort of situations?" Crowley asked, feigning innocence. It wasn't a look that he could really manage successfully. His arched eyebrow suggested impropriety. The smile playing at his lips hinted at salaciousness. The slope of his shoulder, revealed by the askew neck of his silk pyjama top, whispered something lascivious.

Or perhaps Aziraphale was projecting. It didn't seem to matter anymore, though.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said seriously. "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?"

"I wish you would, angel. I've been--"

Aziraphale caught him in midsentence, mouth open. Crowley did not seem to mind, judging from the gasp that he swallowed as Aziraphale's tongue slid along his lower lip. Crowley's hand moved to Aziraphale's neck, drawing Aziraphale up to him. Kiss led to increasingly messy kiss, and Aziraphale found himself struggling to disentangle himself from the wretched sheets around his waist.

Crowley grunted. With his free hand he twitched the covers off the bed completely, a show of remarkable dexterity and impatience.

Aziraphale was panting. Technically speaking, he didn't need to breathe. But panting seemed to fit the situation, and his body responded appropriately. As had Crowley's, he realised. Pressed up against Crowley, both of them on their knees, he could feel the jut of Crowley's cock through the fabric encumbering them.

"Angel," Crowley said hoarsely, his fingers tugging on Aziraphale's hair. "Can I touch you?"

Aziraphale rucked up the bottom of his gown. " _Please_."

Crowley's hand was warm on his thigh, sending little jolts of pleasure through Aziraphale as he traced a path to Aziraphale's groin. Aziraphale, meanwhile, had given up on the buttons of Crowley's top and settled for thinking very hard at it until it disappeared. It may have ended up on the floor, Aziraphale hoped muzzily. Or it may simply have winked out of existence altogether. The end result was that Aziraphale could run his palms freely up Crowley's chest, dragging across his collarbone and then back to Crowley's shoulder blades. He hit the spot right where Crowley's wings would normally manifest as Crowley's hand closed over his cock.

They sighed at the same time.

Aziraphale dug in his nails as Crowley's agile fingers worked his cock. His hips bucked involuntarily, his body shaking as Crowley ran his thumb over the head of his shaft.

"Crowley," he said into an open-mouthed kiss. "Please."

"You beg so prettily, angel," Crowley replied, his vowels elongating into a sound that probably wanted to be a hiss. It should have sounded harsh, but the words were silken. Reverent, even.

Crowley's hand tightened on him, just past gentle. Aziraphale moved his mouth, intending to kiss Crowley's neck, but it turned into a love bite. Crowley drew in a sharp breath and his grip slipped. Aziraphale ought to have felt self-conscious about the whimper that escaped his lips.

Crowley found his rhythm again quickly, and gripped Aziraphale's hip with his other hand. They swayed, Aziraphale anchored by Crowley's fingers pressing into him. Aziraphale breathed in the scent of Crowley's skin and made a reasonable attempt at kissing what he could reach, but his senses were short-circuiting. Then, when Crowley touched him just so, his hips stuttered.

He came hard, desperately.

Crowley muttered something incoherent as Aziraphale tipped him back onto the mattress. Crowley's pyjama bottoms were gone, miracled away by one of them, though by this point it didn't seem to matter who. Crowley's legs spread naturally as Aziraphale settled between them. He nosed Crowley's cock, and Crowley squirmed. Pressing sucking kisses to Crowley's shaft, Aziraphale slid his hands under Crowley's arse and lifted.

Crowley choked out a cry, and Aziraphale felt the echo of it in the shivers down his own spine. There was little finesse left to Aziraphale after that, just suction and the heavy weight of Crowley's cock in his mouth. Crowley screwed his eyes shut, his head tossing restlessly as Aziraphale coaxed him to thrust. Crowley's desire crackled through Aziraphale like an electric shock, and when Crowley finally came Aziraphale was not thinking about the taste or the pressure, but rather the divine vision of Crowley in the moment before. Of Crowley, flushed and wild, his fingers digging desperately into the mattress as he surrendered himself.

Crowley watched him through half-closed lids as Aziraphale crawled up the mattress. His expression was more gentle than Aziraphale had ever seen.

"It was wrong," Aziraphale said. As Crowley's face fell, Aziraphale grew flustered. "Oh! Not what we did, I mean. It's just... we did it the wrong way."

Crowley tilted his head, obviously waiting for Aziraphale to elaborate.

"Well, darling, you're the one with the _tongue_. "

Crowley sputtered, the chuckle rolling through him. He opened his arms to Aziraphale, who curled into him, putting his head on Crowley's shoulder. "Plenty of time for that, angel."

"Quite right," Aziraphale agreed. "I do approve of your teaching methods. I feel decidedly fatigued."

Crowley kissed his hair absently. "A nap, yesss. Just the thing." His breath grew heavy, but his arm tightened around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Sleep might come to him after all. And if it didn't...

Well, he knew a good way to rouse Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to limegreenmonkey for an [illustration](https://limegreenmonkey.tumblr.com/image/187145333675) to the story! ♥


End file.
